“Oh.” Cellachán blinks his surprise upward through the window. However much he had tried to prepare himself for the spectacle, it evidently wasn’t enough. “My goodness.”
He squints almost painfully at the sight, yet, doesn’t take his eyes away while the notepad and pencil are retrieved from his pocket. Only flickers his pupils from point to point, edge to edge, superimposed Escher staircase hellscape to superimposed Escher staircase hellscape.
“That… is a refreshingly pragmatic approach,” the professor comments on their earlier subject, while he flips through to a fresh page. “Seems as though half my students are interested in magitech purely for magitech’s sake — lots of over-designed inventions that would never work in the field, or they try and find problems which fit the technology, rather than design the technology around the problem…” Cel makes the mistake of looking up again, and flinches weakly. “… almost makes you feel as though your brain’s melting out your nose, doesn’t it?”
A low, bassy ‘hmm’ rumbles idly from Cellachán’s throat as he stares, the pencil tap, tap, tap-ing ponderously against a blank page. His eyes narrow, slightly. Then he looks down to the paper, and begins to scribble.
Entire structure appears reflected as virtual image(s)? Since it is thus non-occulting, all reflected vertices/curves/planes are visible through each other.
PROS: structure’s entire design, internal and external, is theoretically observable.
CONS: NOISY.
The pencil stills its scratching. Instead, Cel rests its top against his chin while he considers his notes thus far, though, possibly more as an excuse not to look at that accursed image in the sky than as anything else. But it isn’t long before he looks over toward the haggard, haunted visage of Walter by his side, and smiles apologetically at the baron.
“I’m afraid that my experience with Blight is rather minimal,” the professor professes. “Is Your Lordship able to tell me a little more of its effects on what we’re seeing here? Or — well, anything else you deem relevant, I suppose?”
"Neglecting to design the tools around the craftsmen is the first folly of an aspiring mind towards arrogance," Walter murmurs in agreement.
It's a direct quote from 'Metamorphosis: inspirations in enchantment nodework', a manuscript that addressed the shape of weave-channeling inscriptions, sequencing inspired by organic patterns, and their relation to the longevity of the enchantments - and the longevity of their interactions with each other, where the work studied several complex mechanisms as an example. Gods help whoever read that for leisure, the only people who'd have that much time on their hands would be the professionals and the infirm. Walter is not a professional by his own admission, and quite sturdy on his feet and focused despite the palor.
He seems to smile faintly at the low ponderous noise. The same way a lot of things together ovewhelm his senses, this sound is pleasant because he can really hear the vocal tone. Never to be mentioned among the myriads of things he notices.
By then, Walter's looked long enough just to ensure there was no immediate panic or otherwise outburst that would draw attention from the faraway workers, and now turns his attention to the mud - ground level where the giant puddle of the square has either partially dried, drained, or failed to conquer the elevation. For a brief moment, it feels like something is moving under his feet, and that notion, though it passes in a split second, brings a touch of nausea. He winces, too, for unrelated reasons, returns his gaze over to the deer-kin to catch the glimpse in orange eyes as they narrow, and the quickhand shuffle-scrapes to life across the paper.
"Mhm. Overcomplicating seems to me a staple of the self-assured age. Mayhaps a way to learn to appreciate understanding itself, in its complex forms? And the excess does not leave some with age as easily as air fills them up to be expelled." It's non-committal chatter, kept so not to interrupt the trail of thought even after the scribbling would have stopped.
Of course it feels like his mind is unravelling into pulled strings, and... And it is one more thing that he neglects to speak more of.
Eyes darken, the prime plane falling across the bodies casting shadows in clean lines without the patternworks of weave accompanying it. Through the observation point, the structure is still horribly present, motionless. There is a knot that ties itself in Walter's stomach, seeing that reflection without his use of Sight. But none shows in his poise or tone.
"You might want to be a little more specific. I have compiled the alchemical and weave analysis on the local flora and some fauna that have been altered, there is a report on the recent plague of sorts that had been eradicated in Arpa after being brought in by the scavengers. There are combined reports for entities that seem related to the local folklore, most of which are now presenting a reality of menace rather than the normal fare for echoes through the Shroud. As for here, this..."
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he is looking at the point where the spire is exactly, over the edge of the arcane lens. He's looked at it every day, he knows where that bloody tower is in relation to the square.
Lips press together tightly, brows knit. It pulls him to say things out loud. Things that are of no help but feel true on a level most truths don't. To speak how he sees.
This is butchery. They carved an inscription using tunnels instead of paint, into the earth itself. They flayed the stabilized root until it unraveled, and forced the Shroud to flow in ways that it should not to feed something below, at the cost of torment not immediately visible to the eye. Like breaking a bone and setting it wrong. On purpose.
His eyes light up, and, save for the squint to focus and the stubborn lines between his brows and in the corners of his mouth falling deeper, Walter himself does not seem to notice. This is worse than that. The flaying, the cutting away, the breaking. He is suddenly aware of the salt in his mouth and his gloved hand's fingers curled into a fist until the folds of the fabric creaked and hurt, strained against the knuckles, until the digits dug into the maimed palm through the protective layer. It's worse than wrong. That butchery, that torture, is familiar, save for being inflicted onto the land rather than a person.
The fracture points grow roots, try to re-establish, stabilize based on the actual organic flow - and then they dig again in those directions, and make the ground conform so the lifesblood of whatever this is - is condensed close to the core, while everything else of the land is drained and starved unless it starts breaking and hungering, too-
And then, it's struggled down at last. There is no spark nor abrupt change to his expression - Walter blinks, inhales a little sharply, blinks again, seemingly apologetic as his mind catches up. He rubs his eyes with his good hand. "Excuse me. What I mean to say is that I have structured observation on its effects well recorded."
The wind blows colder, bringing a whiff of stagnant water and molding earth alongside fresh dampness that promises a drizzle to renew, soon.
A deep inhale, as if waking from a nightmare. Walter braves a smile. The tone shifts back to normal. Conversational in everyday existential horror discussion.
He doesn't know how much Alfvig told his former student about the state of things. Walter had written a lot of letters in the winter two years past, in an attempt to find advice, or any scrap of knowledge related to his condition... It doesn't matter. What matters is partial disclosure down the line.
"I have also made some blueprints, gathered whilst looking at it from below - alas, myself being the only origin point for observation. Watchung it is also not possible from outside Arpa's borders, mind, in part - due to the ward network." He pauses for half a beat, clears his throat.
The professor has left without his coat, comes a belated pbservation as the baron glances over at his eye-level and meets the fabric pattern of the olive vest. "On a different note, the weather is about to turn - if you intend to linger outdoors, would you mind having the use of my cloak while I send someone for your coat? I would not want you challenging the local climate's worst so soon upon arrival."
The cloak is unfastened, pulled and tossed up and over a forearm in one move that sweeps with practiced grace, and seeks to obfuscate, distract, from the utterly grim sight. He doesn't want to look at it. It takes some will to concentrate on the simple thought that civil folk of the mortal kind are frail, and he isn't, not any more. How it looks no longer matters, he will take any route to have an excuse and dip indoors, where he cannot feel the tectonic weight of the shape in the sky as much.
The promised dinner travels from the servant quarters by scent alone, across the alleyway from the building opposite where the lord would reside besides the scholars and the soon to be laboratory. The cook's domain, anointed in honey, rosemary and lemongrass.
What was that? Once Walter had progressed on from Arpa’s other troubles to the subject of this defiling tower, trying to describe its very nature… the taut expression, clenching his gloved hand so hard that Cel can see it trembling. Seemingly consumed by some troubled feeling until he can muster it within a breath, to be sighed free.
Cel looks up toward that grim portal one last time. Perhaps after he’s had a chance to read through the baron’s notes, he shall find himself similarly burdened.
“That’s very kind — but, no need. I think I’m finished here for now.” Cellachán dismisses the window with a wave of his hand — pop. He gets the feeling that Walter has seen this cursed sight a few too many times already, and it was good of Baron Thornley to yet stand by for the professor’s first viewing. “I’d like to familiarise myself with Your Lordship’s own discoveries regarding this… structure. At your convenience, of course. Oh—!”
SNAP! exclaim those big fuzzy fingers. Cel rounds upon his abode, where Reggie is still directing porters in and out. A long, rolled-up rug sags gently between the shoulders of two Huntsmen as they navigate the doorway. It’s looking as though the professor will barely recognise his room when he finally gets to pop back in.
“I should fetch my book — there are some things in there which may prove useful should we wish to get a clearer picture of the layout. And, er, and my coat as well.” Suddenly casting an embarrassed glance at Walter, those fingers now scratching awkwardly at his broad neck, “Before I forget it again. Mind if I mention it to your man there — what was his name, sorry?”
What was that? People's eyes don't tend to reflect light in their own color or to glow before falling dark like a quenched lantern. Walter steps on the throat of fear - but feels every joint of his maimed hand beneath the fabric. He must not think about this again until he is out of view. Perhaps, something will be wrought to alleviate the suffering, in time. At least negating what seemed to be a poised strike waiting to happen would be enough. He could handle the rest. He'd find means to handle the rest, unorthodox as always. "Of course," he obliges, and keeps the cloak over his arm, allowing the bite of damp cold to bring clarity back. The gloved hand unclenches. Fingers move, fan out slightly, as if affirming that they are all in place and in good working order.
There is a brief consideration for the tarnished first impression. Regret blooms and fades, there is no time. He wonders if the professor would ask the questions he had brought to him, not of Arpa, in a couple hours, or ever. Mind already working on evading answers. Partial disclosure about his weaving would be necessary, but besides that, he should say little as possible. His condition burdens his impression on other people enough already, he surmises.
Arpa needs to be helped.
Everything else falls by the wayside.
By the time the folk near Cellachán's new quarters are bringing in parts, accompanied by a carpenter to assemble a spare desk, Walter catches Reginald's attention. He does not call out, but the attendant sets off towards them along the edge of the square.
Walter nods slightly, hums because it feels like making a noise makes it slightly better.
Grey reflections tremble in murky puddles, from the wooden supports touching to the water, and from the drizzle that starts, as if summoned.
"My lord," his Huntsman utters casually, announcing the readiness for orders. He's more at ease after almost two months, having found his footing in the current duty quite admirably, and seeming to enjoy the civic reprieve. That is heartening, somewhat. "Reginald," the lord addresses the man back, and answers the question posited thus, with just a bit of a delay, "fetch Professor Cellachán's coat, ask someone for Yvain to tend to such needs until our guest settles, I need you on hand." His gaze flicks over to the deer-kin as Reginald departs. The tone of voice returns, lighter, amiable and more paced. "I will bring the binder with my notes. Where shall we reconvene?"
Probably should have made a ruling instead of asking a new arrival. His eyes drift over to the future laboratory building. Enough tables assembled there, he supposes. His current quarters would not accommodate the antlers easily. The professor's will be awash with noises of construction for the next hour or two. It doesn't even occur to Walter to question the premise that they are going to work starting right this moment, the only question is how it could be made to happen.
“… And a book of mine,” Cel adds before Reginald can sally forth on his coat-fetching quest, “if you’d be so kind. It should still be in my suitcase — green cover, about, oh, yea thick? And entirely blank inside. There’ll be some pounce, ink, a pen, and suchlike bundled up with it. If I could have those as well, please.”
“I will bring the binder with my notes. Where shall we reconvene?”
Cel follows that Tyrian-blue gaze to where it seems to linger on one of the foregone housing prospects hemming this muddy commons. The building seems roomy enough, from the outside. Distinctly quieter than his own lodgings currently are, and with more room to turn around than that slim townhouse-esque abode bearing the von Bremen device. It looks a bit cold and dark at the moment, but that’s nothing which a hearty fire and a few lamps or candles can’t take the edge off.
“There?” he confirms, nodding in its direction. His hand prepares for another flourish to bring his tine-lights back to life. “But, please take your time, My Lord. I can use the interim to make ready—”
He blinks. Then, slowly, swivels his eyes upward.
“I, er, left my antlers on again, didn’t I…?”
* * *
Once Cel’s had a few minutes, the big, gloomy interior he’d started with actually turned out a bit cosier than expected. Its generous fireplace is tucked into a nice inglenook, creating a little hutch of growing warmth and dancing amber light. There are already benches set opposite each other against the nook’s walls, nice and close to that hearth, but Cel has also dragged one of the smaller tables over to sit in the middle. Along with his book and writing implements, it holds a couple of candles which, combined with the fledgling fire and what daylight can make it through the windows, is enough to read by. Certainly for the professor, possessed of tapetum lucidum as he is. And who knows; possibly more than well-lit enough for the man with glowing, solanum eyes.
Interesting, thinks Cellachán, crouched before the fireplace. Twigs and slivers of tar-rich birchbark crackle into searing life before him, burning hot and fast against fatter sticks of alder which have already begun to catch. The dense hornbeam logs balanced against one another, though starting to char, will take a little time yet.
He likes building fires. Or more accurately: he likes building fires without the use of magic. There’s a science to it. Ways to optimise, depending on its stages. A delicate balance one must maintain so as to avoid it all collapsing into a smothered, smoking ruin. There are so many things to account for, before one even thinks about adding magic to the mix. Almost any apprentice can wave their hands and cause an inferno to spring up out of nothing — they just need sheer brute force to do so. Wasteful. But if you comprehend the underlying system, if you can orchestrate the fuel to all cascade just so, then even the tiniest spark can give you that same roaring blaze to warm your home.
Or burn your town to ashes…
Interesting fellow, that Lord von Bremen. Oh, the eye colour, yes, that’s a curious deviation from human norms, though Cel sees his fair share of such ‘abnormalities’. Had he actually seen them glow at one point? Triggered by what — the presence of active weaving, perhaps? That implies more than a mere aesthetic quirk of hereditary. Something other than human there, perhaps. Then there’s the verbal compact: no need for overt spellcraft, none of the specialised tools and procedures Cel and other confidential parties have needed to use in the past, when he’s worked on sensitive projects. He’d given his word, and it had just… happened.
That’s interesting to be sure. Though, Walter Thornley has been an interesting figure to Cellachán even before the professor arrived in Arpa. It began after chancing across some of Walter’s essays on theoretical Shroudcraft, written when they were all much younger. His treatise on ‘aspects’ was what first piqued Cel’s curiosity. The fact that this aspiring young artificer-gentleman then seemed to fall off the face of not just the academic earth, but the very real, general sort of earth as well, that only gave the professor more questions. So when he came up in conversation with Aflvig, and the old fellow mentioned that Baron Thornley von Bremen had in fact gotten back in touch as of a couple years ago…
… now, possibly no one is more surprised than Cellachán to find himself here, in Arpa, and not back in the safe, comfy, familiar surrounds of the college and his duties there. But it had all just gotten so — so routine. Each year, like he was pushing the limits of his knowledge less and less. Atrophying.
Satyavati knows why he chose Arpa. Plenty of other places Cel could have gone seeking the unknown. But then, he always did like feeling useful, and nowhere sounded like it had more use for him than this Blight-infested land. Now he’s here, having made the rather agreeable acquaintance of Walter Thornley. Alfvig had spoken rather fondly of the fellow, so the fact he’s pleasant company is no surprise. Only, Alfvig had also mentioned how passionate young Walter had been.
There doesn’t seem to be so much of that left in the man Cel met today.
And that’s interesting, in a sad sort of way. Do those unaccounted-for years hold the cause for that? Not that Cellachán is inclined to press the matter. Just as he’ll refrain from asking if something has happened to Walter’s right arm, given the vague oddness of its form beneath the glove, and how protective His Lordship seems to be of it at times. Who knows, maybe those will-o-wisps in his eyes are part of that story as well. It’s delicate. Walter seems a good-natured sort and quite personable, as much as a noble is permitted to be personable. For a noble he is, and there are protocols to observe in that regard. As a rule of thumb, true familiarity tends to be frowned upon — especially with those of lower social rank. So Cellachán observes. He observes a number of interesting things about Walter Thornley. No doubt he shall observe even more with time.
Whatever Cellachán observes, though, it is the Lord Thornley’s decision alone whether to discuss.
Looks as though a little more birch-bark is called for; that alder might not have gained the momentum it needs after all. Cel tears a few fresh strips and carefully rests them into the flame, as he and his thoughts patiently wait, bathed in a rising, golden glow.
The Huntsman nods, a very shallow tiny dip, to almost each new item, and seems to put them to mind precisely, adjusting the tip of his hat again after he nods. "Shall be done, saer."
"There," Walter nods, and watches Reginald traverse the boards in a balancing jog, quick to procure and return to heel. His mind does the measuring faster than his consciousness catches. A support sliding out from under the board, no misstep now but with a later weight put on it, the footing would collapse into the shallow water, ankle-deep or so. "Much as it grieves me to part from new acquaintanceship so soon, it may be a little while before I am back."
And raises his eyes to the lights. Oh, so he was seeing them, and not Seeing them, or seeing things in the ways his mind would conjure when too exhausted to distinguish between the first two.
His lips part in a silent chuckle. Not enough to show much of teeth. "Enlightenment rather suits your presence here, good professor."
He needs the herbal remedy. A private space where he will be unheard and unseen. Air is tight in the chest, his throat has an annoying sensation in it, as if something obstructs. It's coming to him again, the pangs of collapse in need of rest he cannot afford.
Walter smiles a calm, lordly smile, not saying farewells because he intends to find his way back yet. Drifts off in a stride, eating up distance but paced as to not impress haste. His passage beshadows the reflections below the board as the cloak billows with the movement and the wind picking up.
* * *
The disgustingly bitter remedy settles slowly, and as the light-headedness begins to fade, his breast in want for air at normal intervals, Walter reclines in the armchair slightly. His writing implements are laid out in front, the stack of reference books slightly skewed from before this moment. At least the ink is still entirely contained in the well.
Thoughts come clearer, and he has time to collect himself, and plan, while he tugs the bandages on his right hand open with a shudder that has nothing to do with the sight itself and more the lack of progress on its tectonic rate of restoration. Dark fingertips, once skeletal now wrapped with soot-colored skin around the bone, land on the tabletop, and feel the polished surface, smooth and cool. He picks up a quill with that right hand, without looking at the bend of the fingers tilting it to and fro, rotating it with a flourish. The medicine coursing through him slows the heart, addles the fears. The feeling is there, in full. But the sight of it disturbs more than him alone, and so...
His mind turns to the professor's arrival. Arpa. Of all places, the hungry, undead-infested deadlands, and this pinnacle of arcane atrocity crowning it with all them like roof decorations ready to plummet. He came to Arpa for curiosity's sake, this Cellachán. And because he entered by way of Alfvig's recommendation, he would be hosted by himself as well as the Masons. This was still one thing Walter could do for Alfvig - to make sure their shared ward wanted for nothing, and was safe...
... It must have been a long journey, especially the days spent shaking up on the road in the caravan cart, dim dawn into dim dusk, no magic to aid traversal - just in case the Shroud decided to act up. He wonders if the professor is particularly good at holding up the mask, or just that passionately in love with the craft, of which both would be excellent qualities. To throw himself into work with such, slightly frazzled but determined, energy, was - charming.
Yes, perhaps he'd found it charming. Nostalgic. Strange to consider, given... well there's a certain exterior Walter isn't used to. Aside from the Dogs, his one short-lived adoptive brethren, most of whom still looked human enough, in Bremen it was mostly humans, some with elven or dehvani blood, some dehvani, one or two elf exiles, and... Long thought short, he hasn't worked with a beastkin before. He'd find it riveting a prospect, to interact with someone this unfamiliar in everything but the mannerisms of civil society - which have been refreshingly upheld - but... there was also consideration that he could not ask all of the questions he would want to, simply in the name of social propriety.
Was the deerkin diet much different from human one, or from deer one for that matter?
Do the deer lose the horns once a year, or had to buff them down, somehow?..
Does Cellachán know a specific cobbler that had outfitted him, same for the tailor, or is there a sufficient population of deer-kin in Makari to have their proportions well recorded?
Can he move those deer ears directionally?
How did family life look? Surely, his parents would be both deer-kin, what about down the line? Were arranged or encouraged marriages a thing, for the reason of keeping a population? It's not like beast-kin could produce offspring with other species- would it be... to them, would it be considered deviance, in the same way that... if... what does it matter, best not think it.
Can he drink alcohol? Or, rather, does he, should that be offered?
Are those senses as sharp as a deer's?
What is a personal routine like, for a gentleman of antlered walk?
The eyes are brighter than a deer's, of that he is sure. He's seen his fair share of light browns. This one stood out, reminded him of marigolds and pine resin in the sun, without being too saturated as to draw attention by itself. A warm shade, nature-blessed shade that did not belong here, in this desparing place. But he was thankful to see it.
None of that has to do with work. He isn't even sure he was respectful about his curiosity - it is curiosity, after all, and at its spring it needs to be alive before its flow is stymied into social conventions. Cellachán has to be properly considered because Walter does not want to cause discomfort simply staring at a loss for words or stumbling in a manner because he's decided to consider the man as deer when it is not required. It is not lord-like. Besides, Cellachán is a professor of standing that matters.
How he wishes they could have met at Makari, and would not have to make most of a possibly brief collaboration at this dreary, hopeless place.
...oh, how on earth is he going to keep someone like this safe? The lot of common folk is frail. Even former soldiers, especially former soldiers, but common folk - a different world from him now, and status has absolutely nill to do with it.
The common folk frighten easily of things that he would just observe, fisticuffs a step too much when he would not flinch at a limb being torn off before his eyes. They aren't... sturdy, the fight response unpolished, slow, exposing them to danger. They do not have the senses to-
Well it is his job, isn't it? Along with everyone else's job that serves under his command. To keep the folk safe.
Someone has to hold against the blows for someone else to keep the wonder that he no longer has the right to.
Wonder is such a frail, precious thing. To watch someone's curiosity hunger, felt almost like his could, as well.
He couldn't afford to lose that, too.
The sharp scent of medicinal ointment stings the air and numbs the right hand's pains. The bandages are secured at the elbow, and, once Walter pulls a glove over the fingers it almost looks like there is a proper human limb beneath.
His heavy chair with vulpine paws along each corner of the seat, heavy cloak draped over the ivy-carved back, creaks when Walter rises, once again a lord.
He does not take the heavy cloak, however, instead grabbing onto the stack of books, his binder crowning the top along with draft sheets of paper, a box with writing utensils pressed to the side of the arrangement - and makes his way from his private quarters, downstairs, across the dining room being set at leisure pace - towards the point of meeting.
* * *
A while before Walter rejoins, Yvain shows up to where Cellachán elected, and introduces himself shyly - still a scribe, some pockmarks on the face, blond hair hanging in short feathery streaks, sheepish but determined to make himself useful. He makes a noise, as if to protest the professor burdening himself with building a fire, then clears his throat and apologizes. Scribbles with a sharpened bit of charcoal, though, on a draft paper. Studious, though in that specific, narrow field - trying to figure out why the shirt collar is shaped thus. He eyes the shoes, too, trying to keep to a corner unless called upon. Talking isn't his strong suit.
Outside, Walter is briefly detained by a report, as Helge of the Hunt catches up with him mid-step. There is a muffled sound of paper shifting against paper before being pulled open, a momentary pause, a muffled thanks, a quiet set of instructions in regards to team composition and preparations, note on the landscape in the sector and adjustment for the usual tactics when it comes to ride-by crossbowmen.
The door opens, and lord Thornley steps in. Still in that dark grey doublet embroidered meticulously along the collar and around the opening of the sleeves. Still those striking blue shirt sleeves spilling in folds around his arms until they are secured by armguard and a glove - a framing to the books he carries himself, against his chest, alongside a box. He strides towards the nearest table he can set the burden upon, and tries to shed any gravity of presence that he can. No one to frighten into evening their act here. "Professor," he announces himself, tone falling a touch quieter. "I've brought some references alongside my notes. And here," the binder is taken from the top of the stack, the wooden writing box clacking against the tabletop - and a paper is pulled out with the cleanest blueprint of the leyline he could attempt, "is the better one I could compose, and," another few pages are filtered out, already in a neat stack, "some attempts at calculating counter-architecture, if you'd feel curious. One for a series of seals to stymy the flow of negative energy specifically - not an ideal solution, I know; and this one, based on O'graham Vard's Principle, attempts to add to fracture points in a way that would resume the leyline's organic flow."
He looks up, collected, calm. "You are free to critique and speak your mind in private discussions." At that, Yvain perks up, ready to slip out the door. "I may be a lord, but you are, as well as come from, an authority on this part of the work."
He's more than certain that the calculations are skewed. Ten years of going by feeling, after all, would do that. So would not remembering half the advanced formulas. The only thing that's there must be the enduring spirit.
Still, Walter straightens up, hand folding along the small of his back, and offers a smile. An easier smile than was braved outside. In fact, he is just a little hazy, and the scent of bitter herbs ghosts over before fading. "We've time before we are called in late afternoon."
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